


I Don't Love You (I never even got the chance)

by My_Black_Crimson_Rose6



Series: The Ghost Of You [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, I'm so so sorry, M/M, MCR song titles work for this i don't know why, Multi, Multiple Soulmates, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Soulmate-Identifying "Last Words", Soulmates, Survivor Guilt, Universe Alteration, everything Wash loves (or should love) dies, its more of a slight brush of PTSD (can't have canon Wash without it right?), well its kinda set in the future but in canon universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 18:44:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3860599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Black_Crimson_Rose6/pseuds/My_Black_Crimson_Rose6
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the death of his (first) soulmate David Washington wasn't expecting for two more marks to appear...</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Love You (I never even got the chance)

**Author's Note:**

> Blame the prompt man. I also warned everyone that I had a Murder Sandwich idea for it too!!
> 
> Prompt: soulmate au where instead of your soulmates first words to you written on your skin it’s their last words you ever hear them say so you don’t know who your soulmate is until you lose them.
> 
> I'm sorry, so so sorry.
> 
> Also, I'm a big person who believes in if you have a soulmate you can have more than one 'cause they're just souls that are weaved with yours for some important reason--like they mean a lot to you in some way. It doesn't have to be a romantic kind of way or anything. But like, there's some big meaning behind it and their souls are kinda forever connected with yours. So even if... say, rebirth or whatever, you've gonna meet those souls again and maybe they'd have a different affect on you in that timeline but they're still going to impact you emotion/physically in some way or form... y'know? And hopefully these soulmates would have a pleasant affect on your life.
> 
> (this story is not a pleasant one. I'm so so sorry)
> 
>  
> 
> [I'm ShadowSheyla on Tumblr](http://shadowsheyla.tumblr.com/)

He never thought much about the mark on his thigh, the one that was Maine’s. The bulky **Thanks** now a cold, dead gray colour. It felt like ice every time he’d touch it—his heart would clench and break all over again. The man’s back would flash in his mind—the words he had said to him before giving the Red that hook and telling them to use it.

He killed Maine—it was all his fault.

He could blame a bunch of people, sure. He could point the blame at Carolina for pushing Maine from the window (or for her not paying attention and Maine taking that sniper shot or even getting his throat shot out), he could blame her for the Sigma situation, he could blame Sigma, he could blame the leader board, could blame the Director—he could blame this or that or the other thing.

In the end Maine (or The Meta at that point) met his end with Washington’s idea and he was the one that said those words that would’ve made the man’s back grow hot as the words burned in his skin.

Wash’s had burned bright too—for _years_. It was a calm heat, a pleasant warmth that showed the words were spoken but the person’s time wasn’t up. Wash never noticed it with everything that happened; he didn’t like to lay around nude though he made the exception when Maine was laying next to him. But there wasn’t any chance of that (none) once Maine was out of recovery and Sigma was quickly implanted.

 _Wash, you can’t keep translating everything. We need to be able to communicate with him even when you’re not around_.

Ha, and look at what happened because of that.

His soulmate was dead and he still lingered on—he pushed forwards with the Reds and Blues, then with Carolina and Epsilon.

He had heard of multiple soulmates. It wasn’t rare, not like the lack of any soulmate, but it wasn’t a common occurrence. Some had tried to explain it as these souls weaved together from different rebirthing cycles—that those souls all somehow had an importance to that individual in some way, may it be in that life cycle or the next or one of the past ones. It could be with romantic partners or platonic ones; they could be your most hated foe—could be a parent even in one of those lives.

David had never paid much attention to those ideas—too worried about having someone thank him for something. Young David never even picked up on the glowing the marks would take when your soulmate would say those words (or that one word)—he didn’t know until he was Washington and his soulmate had lost his mind and died.

He could’ve continued on like that—lingering. Washington was good at just… lingering, always the bridesmaid never the bride. That’s how that saying went, right?

He could’ve continued on with the ice cold mark marring the inside of his thigh, he was used to not looking at it and he hardly took his armor off to begin with. Washington was _fine_ (he wasn’t fine, he hasn’t been fine for a long long time) with that one stone cold mark on his body—but then the other two appeared.

Wash had felt a pressure against his face and back when they were on the ship to Blood Gulch—or something, Wash was just following _them_. They helped keep the pain at bay (even the pain that didn’t stem from Maine), the memories… the guilt… the anger… fear, grief… the voices that sounded like fallen companions. He felt the pressure as soon as he stepped onto the ship; it caressed his body, wrapping him in a warm embrace.

He didn’t want to feel it—there was a warmth in that touch that Wash just couldn’t welcome, not after Maine. Not after what had happened. Not after what he did.

The Blues roomed together, sharing both the four bunked room (only using three) and the attached bathroom. It wasn’t difficult for Wash to escape to their rooms and into the bathroom where he locked the door behind him and quickly threw off his armor, the Kevlar suit underneath and his underclothes in a fit to see what new _thing_ plagued his body.

He wished it was the plague. The Black Plague would’ve been better than the letters on his face right under his right eye written in a scratchy scrawl, it would’ve been better than the crisp bold writing on his back.

**Bang Bang**

**Impressive, Agent Washington**

He vomited. Heaving up bile—over and over and over again. He ignored the worried knocks on the door from a distressed Caboose and a growing concerned Tucker. He ignored them until nothing but foam rolled off his tongue and into the toilet, he ignored them until he returned his clothes to his person (then the Kevlar suit and finally his armor and most importantly his helmet).

\--

He should’ve figured it out before that moment, he should’ve but he didn’t _want to_. He had his assumptions on the words on his back—he just _didn’t want to_ think about it. Not after everything that happened on Chorus, after finding out what _they_ were doing.

Washington didn’t want to be the other reason why another one of his soulmates died—yet here he was.

Here he was thinking that he shouldn’t do it—shouldn’t say these words already rolling from his tongue and through his speakers. "You're not a soldier Locus; you don't have the heart for it." He was bait; he was the bait to the Locus trap and Locus knew it and yet he still came. Washington was the bait that would kill his second soulmate—a fiery explosion led by the joint Federal and Rebels forces with special help from Donut and Lopez.

Here he was when Locus tilted his head in a subtle hint of acknowledgement—understanding. “Impressive, Agent Washington,” his voice still steady. Wash’s back flared with heat just as the land around them took to flames and heat and gunpowder.

Wash could only feel the burning hot embrace—fire around him, in him—then nothing.

A hand grabbed at him, pulling at his armor and Wash quickly snapped awake. “Tucker needs help!” Grif’s voice snapped him out of it—his hold steady, grip firm as he heaved the man from the ground and towards where Captain Tucker was.

There was a numbing cold at his back, a chill that Wash would never rid himself off. He shouldn’t be pained by it—he _shouldn’t_. They were the enemy, they were killing the people of Chorus—it needed to be done.

It needed to be done but that didn’t mean that Wash didn’t still blame himself— _maybe, maybe_ …

Now wasn’t the time in maybe’s, not when his men were still fighting and dying. Now was not the time to morn for a possibility that he didn’t even _want_. Now was simply not the time to _linger_ —he needed to fight.

\--

Wash and Grif arrived just as Tucker rammed the blade of his sword through Felix’s abdomen. “I,” the sound of Tucker’s surprised inhale spoke volumes. He hadn’t thought that would hit, or at least not like it did. It could have been Felix who made the slip—too cocky, he was so _fucking_ cocky—or maybe just a seer amount of dumb luck. The blade disappeared and Felix fell back in a heap, with a hand covering his gut his other reached up and removed the helmet from his head. He threw it towards the Blue, the helmet knocking against the man’s boots and rolling.

"Aren't you going to finish the job, Captain Tucker?" he grins teeth bloody.

Wash opens up a chat between Tucker and himself, _I’ll do it_. He doesn’t know how Tucker would take to it. He doesn’t want to take the moment away from him—he doesn’t want to but he doesn’t think Tucker could do it. He doesn’t think Tucker could put the man out of his misery, even if he doesn’t deserve it.

Tucker shakes his head, and for a moment Wash thinks he’s talking to him. "No," he says and he nods at the former freelancer. As much as he wanted to kill Felix, as much as this man deserved it, he couldn't do it. He wouldn't be able to look into the cold dead eyes of the man even though he’s a sick son of a bitch. Wash could see it as he turned away from the fallen mercenary, "but he will."

Wash steps up, pass Grif and Caboose and even Carolina who had just arrived with the other Blue. Pointing the gun at Felix's head, finger on the trigger, Wash tilts his head like he's ready for some hiss or wicked one liner—he's giving the man that much.

Felix brought his middle and forefinger up lazily; “bang bang” he smirked as he fired his finger pistol mockingly.

The mark on Wash's face burned—he's long since learned what this meant, the mark on his thigh and the one on his back burned similarly. Washington reached up to pull his own helmet off—the mark under his eye burned a bright red.

If Carolina saw anything from her position she made no move to stop him.

He didn't have to do this, he could walk away now (he could never see it fall to gray like the others). Felix's eyes snapped to the glowing mark and his eyes softened, lips pulling up into a grin. "I'll see you in Hell," Washington finally bit back and the man bared his teeth in a bloody smile as Wash shot him in the forehead.

His head slammed back under the force; skull, brain matter and blood everywhere. On his neck his mark was slowly bleeding to gray—Wash couldn’t look away from the mark, the warmth seeping from it like the one of Washington’s face. Wash couldn’t look away even when the gun in his hand dropped.

He’s killed three of his soulmates— _three_.

He turned; he turned away from the body, from his gun, from the people who watched the public execution with a satisfaction in their posture. Washington turned away from it all with tears gathered in his eyes.

Everything was so cold—his thigh, his back, half of his face.

He took three steps before he crumbled, knees giving out. His hands shook, they shook more than when he killed for the first time. He body shook—there was a cold in his bones that he would never loose. He pressed his forehead to dirt, tears soaking the light brown soil. There was a hand at the back of his neck and Wash whined; broken, pained. Pathetic.

“I don’t like it when Agent Washington cries,” it was always going to be Caboose who would come to his rescue now—wasn’t it? He found him when he realized it all with Maine. He was the only one springing to action now. The standard issued Blue gathered him in his arms like he were a child; a small broken thing in need of some love and compassion.

“I killed them all,” he hiccupped, words catching on the air he was sucking in and out of his lungs as he worked himself into a panic. He was cold—so _fucking cold_. He could feel another set of hands on him—one ruffling his hair and the other gripping his arm. “I killed them all—all three of my soulmates.”

“Dude, no yo—” Grif was starting something behind him and Wash could only choke out a another sob.

“Maine,” he started.

Carolina sucked in a breath and someone hissed out a _jesus fucking Christ_.

“Locus,” he continued.

There was a wince from Donut.

“Felix,” he finished.

The hand in his hair stopped rubbing and Wash could only pinch his eyes shut.

“I killed them,” he whispered.

 _I killed them,_ and now he was back to lingering. Lingering on what-if possibilities and poor decisions. He could blame anyone and everyone—he could but he never would. He killed Maine—it was his idea. He killed Locus—he was the bait, he was the one that said it would work. He killed Felix—he pulled the trigger and blew out his brains.

David Washington killed his soulmates…

He killed them.

He killed them.

_I killed them._


End file.
